Chapter 6 - The Ambush in the Private Salon
The private salon on the second mezzanine was an opulent room lined with heavy velvet curtains, soundproof mahogany paneling, and an ornate marble fireplace.
The heavy brass doors clicked shut behind us, and the muffled strains of Tchaikovsky’s strings faded into complete silence.
The players in this deadly game took their positions with chilling precision.
Justice Charles Laurent moved immediately to the mahogany bar, pouring himself a double scotch with visibly shaking hands.
Elena stood near the French doors overlooking the empty balcony, her arms crossed defensively over her chest, refusing to look at me.
Marcus Vance moved like a panther toward the corner of the room, leaning his back against the wall, his coat unbuttoned just enough to reveal the black polymer grip of a silenced pistol.
Julian Costello walked calmly behind the massive executive desk, setting his silver-headed cane against the wood.
Arthur stood in the center of the Persian rug, holding my hand firmly within his own, his expression as unreadable as an Egyptian monument.
“Lock the doors, Marcus,” Julian said quietly.
The deadbolt clicked into place with the finality of a closing tomb.
“Julian,” Arthur said, his voice terrifyingly calm.
“Is this where you explain why three million dollars moved from Vincent Vance’s offshore accounts into your private campaign fund yesterday?”
Julian did not flinch; instead, he laughed softly, a patronizing, arrogant chuckle that filled the room.
“Always the brutal enforcer, Arthur,” Julian sighed, leaning both hands on the desk.
“You think Chicago can still be run with brass knuckles, broken fingers, and blood on the pavement.”
“You are an archaic relic of the past.”
“This city doesn't want street butchers anymore, brother.”
“It wants men in bespoke suits who sign zoning ordinances and control city contracts through the legislature.”
“And you think you are that man?” Arthur asked, stepping one pace forward.
“I am that man!” Julian snapped, his charismatic facade peeling away to reveal the raw, seething megalomania beneath.
“I spent twelve years eating dirt in your shadow while everyone whispered, ‘There goes the mobster’s little brother!’”
“I was smarter than you, faster than you, cleaner than you!”
“Yet our father gave you the empire because you knew how to pull a trigger without crying!”
Arthur shook his head slowly, a deep sadness coloring his baritone voice.
“Our father didn't give me the empire to honor me, Julian.”
“He gave it to me to protect you.”
“He wanted your hands clean so you wouldn't spend your life sleeping with one eye open and checking your car for dynamite every morning.”
“I took the blood so you could have the light.”
Julian’s face twisted into an ugly, demonic sneer.
“Well, brother, I don't want your protection.”
“I want your crown.”
Julian nodded sharply toward the corner.
Marcus Vance drew his silenced weapon with blinding speed, leveling the barrel directly at Arthur’s forehead.
“Where is my father, Arthur?” Marcus snarled, his finger tightening against the trigger.
“Tell me where his body is before I blow your brains across these curtains!”
“Your father died because he betrayed this family,” Arthur stated without blinking, his gaze never leaving Marcus’s eyes.
“Just like you are doing right now, cousin.”
“Shut up!” Marcus roared, taking two aggressive steps forward.
“Marcus, do it now!” Elena screamed from the balcony doors, her vanity giving way to pure hysteria.
“Kill him and let’s get this over with!”
In that split second of chaotic fury, Julian’s eyes flicked to me.
“Take the girl out first, Marcus,” Julian ordered coldly.
“Leave no witnesses.”
The moment Marcus shifted the muzzle of his pistol toward my chest, Arthur moved.
Despite his torn forearm, Arthur lunged forward with devastating, ferocious power, his right hand clapping over the slide of Marcus’s gun, wrenching the barrel toward the ceiling.
A muffled pop echoed through the room as a bullet shattered the crystal chandelier overhead, raining sharp glass across the rug.
Arthur drove his forehead violently into Marcus’s nose, the sickening crunch of bone echoing off the walls.
Marcus staggered backward, blood spurting from his face, but he swung his left fist wildly, striking Arthur directly across his freshly stitched wound.
Arthur groaned in agony, his knees buckling as blood instantly soaked through his tuxedo jacket.
Marcus raised the weapon again, his eyes crazed with bloodlust, aiming straight at Arthur’s exposed neck.
My hands moved without a single conscious thought.
I reached beneath the silk of my green gown, drew the heavy .38 revolver from my thigh holster, cocked the hammer, and pulled the trigger.
The roar of the unsuppressed .38 was deafening inside the enclosed room.
The bullet struck Marcus squarely in the right shoulder, spinning him around like a rag doll.
His silenced weapon slipped from his bloody fingers, clattering across the polished floor toward my feet.
Marcus collapsed against the fireplace, clutching his shattered shoulder, howling in shock and agony.
Elena shrieked at the top of her lungs, dropping to the floor and covering her head among the shattered chandelier glass.
Justice Laurent sank onto the leather couch, clutching his chest, hyperventilating in sheer, cowardly terror.
I stood there, both hands gripping the smoking revolver, the barrel pointed directly between Julian Costello’s eyes.
Julian stood behind the desk, his hands raised in the air, his face completely drained of color as he stared at the maid who held his life in her hands.
“Don’t move,” I said, my voice steady, cold, and entirely devoid of fear.
Arthur rose slowly from the floor, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.
He looked at the bleeding Marcus, then at his terrified brother, and finally turned his gaze toward me.
A dark, prideful smile touched Arthur Costello’s lips.
May you like
“A very loyal servant,” Arthur whispered softly.
“Now let’s finish this family meeting.”
